There's No Money In Poetry, But Then

Nine-tenths Of English Poetic Literature Is The Result Either Of Vulgar Careerism Or Of A Poet Trying To Keep His Hand In. Most Poets Are Dead By Their Late Twenties.

Love Without Hope, As When The Young Bird-catcher Swept Off His Tall Hat To The Squire's Own Daughter, So Let The Imprisoned Larks Escape And Fly Singing About Her Head, As She Rode By.

About This Business Of Being A Gentleman: I Paid So Heavily For The Fourteen Years Of My Gentleman's Education That I Feel Entitled, Now And Then, To Get Some Sort Of Return.

As Was The Custom In Such Cases, The Pear Tree Was Charged With Murder And Sentenced To Be Uprooted And Burned.

This Seems To Me A Philosophical Question, And Therefore Irrelevant, Question. A Poet's Destiny Is To Love.